The Awful Secret

by Bernard Knight

  OUTLAW

  Literally, anyone outside the law, usually escaped prisoners or sanctuary seekers. They usually took refuge in the forests and lived by banditry, as in the tales of Robin Hood. Highway robbers were sometimes called ‘trail bastons’. Outlaws ceased to exist as legal persons and were considered ‘as the wolf’s head’, as they could be killed on sight by anyone, who could claim a bounty if they took the severed head to the sheriff or coroner.

  OUTREMER

  The four Christian kingdoms in the Levant at the time of the Crusades, including the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

  PHTHISIS

  Tuberculosis, rife in medieval times.

  PORTREEVE

  One of the two senior burgesses in a township, elected by the others as leaders. They were superseded by a mayor, the first mayor of Exeter being elected in 1208.

  PRECENTOR

  A senior canon in a cathedral, responsible for organising the religious services, singing etc.

  PRECEPTORY

  A Templar establishment (see Commandery).

  PRESENTMENT OF ENGLISHRY

  Following the 1066 Conquest, many Normans were covertly killed by aggrieved Saxons, so the law decreed that anyone found dead from unnatural causes was presumed to be a Norman, and the community was heavily punished by the ‘murdrum’ fine, unless they could prove that the deceased was Saxon. This was done before the coroner by male members of the family. This continued for several centuries, as a good source of revenue for the Treasury, even though it became meaningless so long after the Conquest, due to intermarriage.

  SCILLY ISLES

  A group of islands off Land’s End, noted for pirates in the Middle Ages. In 1208, over 100 pirates were hanged there at Tresco.

  SECONDARY

  A young priest, junior to a vicar (qv), who may also be an assistant to a canon (qv).

  SERGEANT

  Also spelt ‘serjeant’, has several meanings. A senior-man-at-arms, or a law officer in early times, below a bailiff in a town; also the squire of a Templar Knight, who wore brown or black.

  SHERIFF

  The ‘shire-reeve’, the King’s representative in each county, responsible for law and order and the collection of taxes. There was great corruption amongst sheriffs, and it was a much-sought-after appointment, large sums being paid for the post, due to the many opportunities for embezzlement.

  SENESCHAL

  See Steward.

  SOCMAN

  A freeman, as opposed to a bondsman. The latter consisted of villiens, serfs and slaves in descending order of servitude in the feudal system.

  STEWARD

  The senior servant of a lord, also called a seneschal. It could be a highly prestigious and responsible post, especially in a great house. The Stuart dynasty derived their name from being stewards.

  SUMPTER HORSE

  A pack animal, used for carrying loads rather than riding.

  SURCOAT

  Also called a ‘super-tunic’, it was worn over the tunic or over armour, where it protected the wearer from the sun on the metal and provided a site for heraldic emblems. The most famous was the white surcoat of the Knights Templar, with the characteristic broad red Cross.

  TRAIL-BASTON

  A highway robber, an outlaw (qv) who usually worked with a gang.

  TUNIC

  The main garment for a man, pulled over the head to reach the knee or calf. A linen shirt might be worn underneath and a cloak or mantle over it. The skirt was slit for riding a horse.

  UNDERCROFT

  The lowest level of a fortified building. The entrance to the rest of the structure was on the floor above, isolated from the undercroft, which might be partly below ground level. Removable wooden stairs prevented attackers from reaching the main entrance above.

  VICAR

  A priest employed by a more senior cleric, such as a canon (qv) to carry out some of his religious duties, especially attending the numerous services in the cathedral. Often called a vicar-choral, from his participation in chanted services.

  WATTLE & DAUB

  A common medieval building technique, where clay or plaster is applied over a woven framework of hazel withies.

  PROLOGUE

  March 1195

  The disabled ship drifted rapidly towards the lee shore, a rugged coast seen dimly in the dusk. Although by the violent standards of the Severn Sea the weather was far from extreme, there was a strong north-westerly wind, sufficient to raise spume from the crests of the grey Atlantic rollers and partly obscure the towering cliffs with spray.

  The short, stumpy vessel pitched and rolled at the mercy of the waves, having no steerage-way from the single sail, which lay collapsed on the deck. Neither was there a steering oar near the stern, both that and the steersman having been washed away. The little ship was now merely flotsam awaiting the inevitable impact with the northerncoast of Devon. The great cliffs, where Exmoor abruptly tumbled into the sea opposite distant Wales, now loomed on the port beam of the derelict. Although all the land immediately ahead was lower than to the east, it still presented a jagged prospect of rocks, reefs and coves.

  The knarr was a broader version of the Viking longboat, with high stem and stern posts, but no dragon carvings ornamented it. The forward and after thirds were decked in, but the centre was an open hatch for the cargo. The canvas cover was gone, as was the cargo, and the hold was thigh-deep in water, which shipped over the sides each time the knarr broached the waves in its uncontrolled plunge towards the rocks.

  Although it was dusk, there was still enough light for the sole survivor to see the corpse of one of his shipmates lying alongside him, his feet tangled in a rope, which had saved it from being washed overboard. Terrified, the young seaman clung to a fallen spar on the deck and stared ahead through the spray at the grey bulk of the shore, which seemed to race towards him. He knew most of the landmarks between Penzance and Bristol and, even through his fear, recognised to his left the Great Hangman, England’s highest cliff, which towered more than a thousand feet above the end of Combe Martin Bay.

  As the last few cable-lengths of open sea gave way to thunderous white surf, he glimpsed a dim yellow light high on the land, above the point where the vessel must inevitably strike. A few seconds later, with a shriek of terror, the youth felt a grinding crash as a roller lifted the hull on to a jagged reef at the foot of a cliff. The impact tore his feeble grasp from the spar and, as the vessel tilted almost on to her beam ends, he slid across the deck and was washed off into the surf by the advancing wave. The breaker rolled him up a narrow gully between the rocks and almost contemptuously spat him out on to a tongue of shingle that ended in a shallow cave. Sobbing with fear and only half aware of his surroundings, he scrabbled on hands and knees through the white foam that streamed back to meet the next wave and collapsed far enough up the tiny beach to escape being sucked back into the sea.

  Wet through in the keen wind, he lay shivering for a while, then slipped into unconsciousness, unaware of the wavering gleam of a horn lantern and the scrunch of feet that came down a narrow path from above.

  CHAPTER ONE

  In which Crowner John mounts his horse

  ‘At last, Gwyn! I can do it without that bloody box!’

  Later, John de Wolfe thought how strange it was that he should be so exultant at such a little thing, which would never have crossed his mind two months ago. Yet, in Martin’s Lane that morning, he was as pleased as a child with a new toy. The two men who watched him seemed just as delighted, but his servant Mary, who watched from the doorway of his house opposite, clucked under her breath at the infantile antics of three grown men.

  The ‘bloody box’ was a set of crude wooden steps knocked together by Gwyn of Polruan. It had done sterling service for the past two weeks, in allowing de Wolfe to climb up on to his new horse, Odin. But this morning he had been able to discard Gwyn’s invention and put his whole weight on his injured left leg to lift the other into the stirrup. Now he sat solidly on the back
of the patient stallion, a grin spreading across his normally stern face.

  ‘You’d better carry this crook for the time being, Crowner,’ advised Gwyn, the shaggy red-headed giant of a Cornishman who had been his henchman for almost twenty years. He handed up a walking stick, which de Wolfe had been using since he threw away his crutch three weeks earlier, and the coroner pranced the stallion up and down the lane for a few yards, turning and weaving in pure pleasure. Although he had been riding for the past ten days, the fact that he could now mount his own horse without climbing steps made him feel independent at last.

  Mary shook her dark hair in mock despair and vanished into the nether regions of the house to cook the midday meal. Secretly she was as pleased as the men outside that her master was not only almost back to full physical fitness but that he should have lost his snarling frustration at being housebound for so many weeks.

  It was in early January that he had broken his leg on the tourney field at Bull Mead. In his dying moments, de Wolfe’s beloved old horse, Bran, had pitched him to the ground. The coroner’s shin-bone had snapped, but thankfully it was a clean break, and Gwyn’s prompt action in lashing the leg to a plank with leather straps had kept it in a good position. The Cornishman had seen this done by the Knights Hospitaller in Palestine, and with the constant help of Brother Saulf, a monk from the little hospital of St John up near Exeter’s East Gate, the leg had mended rapidly. De Wolfe’s tough physique, hardened by years of soldiering, together with his wife Matilda’s relentless if grim-faced nursing, had had him back on his feet in three weeks.

  Now, two months later, he was riding his horse again. ‘I’ll take him up to the castle, Gwyn,’ he called, and walked the black stallion up the narrow lane to the high street. His officer trotted alongside, his shaggy hair bouncing over the collar of his frayed leather cape.

  As de Wolfe pushed his way through the crowded main street, thronged with people shopping at the stalls on each side and with carts and barrows jostling for passage, he was assailed by greetings, mostly congratulating him on his return to health. An early spring was in the air and, though it was cold, there was a clear pale blue sky overhead while the lack of rain for a week had allowed the usual slush of garbage underfoot to dry to a crumbly paste.

  The houses and shops in the main thoroughfare were of all shapes and sizes, mostly wooden, but a few were now built in stone. Most were tall and narrow, crammed together like peas in a pod. Some had straw thatch, some crude turf, some wooden shingle roofs and others stone tiles. Hazy smoke filtered from under the eaves of most dwellings, only a few having new-fangled chimneys.

  Suddenly, as he plodded sedately through the crowded street, he felt a prickling of the hairs on the back of his neck. Though not an imaginative man, de Wolfe knew from the experience of many an ambush that he was being watched. It was a sixth sense, an occult gift that had saved his life a few times in the French and Irish campaigns, as well as in Palestine. He had felt it yesterday when coming home from the tavern and had glimpsed a face peering around a wall, the man vanishing almost instantly as John turned in his direction. The features had seemed vaguely familiar, but despite racking his brains, he failed to recall who it might have been.

  Now, again, he looked about him and once more the same face gazed fleetingly at him from the steps of St Lawrence. A split second later, the man, enveloped in a dark mantle, turned and vanished into the church. De Wolfe knew that if the fellow had no wish to be accosted he would have melted away by the time he slowly got himself down off Odin. He cudgelled his memory to recall the identity of that face so briefly seen, but still nothing came to mind. He shrugged and urged the stallion on again. It seemed unlikely that the man was an assassin – though there had been a plot against him a couple of months ago. Hopefully that was all over now.

  A hundred yards short of the East Gate, John hauled his steed around to the left and walked him up the slope towards the castle, perched at the top corner of the city. From the ruddy colour of its local sandstone, it was always known as Rougemont, built by the Conqueror in the northern corner of the old Roman walls. Passing through an open gate in a wooden stockade, de Wolfe rode into the large outer ward, where the huts of the soldiers and their families half covered the slope to the inner fortifications. A few yards more and he came to the tall gatehouse where he had a cramped chamber on the top floor.

  The solitary guard on the steep drawbridge saluted de Wolfe with a lift of his spear as he passed under the gateway and stopped opposite the low door of the guardroom. Immediately, a man-at-arms with a badge of seniority on his leather jerkin emerged, his craggy face softening into a grin of welcome. ‘Glad to see you, Crowner! How’s the leg today?’

  De Wolfe looked down at Gabriel, the sergeant of the castle guard, an old friend and covert sympathiser in his running feud with the sheriff, his brother-in-law, Sir Richard de Revelle. ‘Better and better, Gabriel! For the first time I can mount my horse from the ground.’

  To demonstrate his prowess in reverse, John lowered himself carefully from the stallion’s back and, with the stick in his left hand, limped resolutely into the guardroom and across to the foot of the narrow, twisting stairs that led to the upper storey. Gwyn and Gabriel stood behind him, looking anxious as he began the ascent. On the third step he slipped and only Gwyn’s brawny arms saved him from falling backwards out of the stairway entrance.

  De Wolfe swore fluently, including a few Saracen oaths in his frustration, but had to admit that he was not yet ready to get up to his chamber. ‘It’s this twice-accursed stick, it gets in the way!’ he fumed. ‘We’ll have to have some other room at ground level.’

  Leaving Odin at the guardhouse, he set off across the littered mud of the inner ward towards the keep that sheltered against the far wall. ‘Stay and watch my horse, Gwyn,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I’m off to badger the sheriff for a new chamber.’

  With his stick prodding the earth at every step, his strengthening leg made good progress across the triangular area inside the high, crenellated walls. On his left was the bare stone box of the Shire Hall, the courthouse where he held most of his city inquests, and on his right, the tiny garrison chapel of St Mary. All around the inside of the walls were huts, sheds and lean-to shanties; some were living quarters for soldiers and a few families, others storehouses, stables and cart-sheds. The keep was a squat, two-storey building over an undercroft, which housed the castle gaol. The two upper floors contained the hall, and chambers for the sheriff, the constable, a number of clerks, servants and a few knights and squires.

  Richard de Revelle lived here for much of the time, going home to his manors at Revelstoke near Plympton and another near Tiverton, where his sour-faced wife spent all her time, not deigning to reside in the admittedly Spartan quarters of Rougemont. John suspected – indeed, he had had the proof of his own eyes – that his brother-in-law preferred the cold chambers of the castle to the company of his spouse: there, he could indulge his liking for ladies of the town when she was well out of sight.

  De Wolfe clumped up the wooden steps to the door of the keep, the man-at-arms on duty giving him a smiling salute. The coroner was a popular man amongst soldiers, both from his reputation as a seasoned Crusader and for being a staunch supporter and personal friend of their king, Richard the Lionheart.

  The guard watched him limp through the arched doorway at the head of the steps, a tall, lean figure, always dressed in black or grey. With raven hair down to his shoulders, thick black eyebrows and habitual dark stubble on his beardless face, the soldier could well believe that he had been known as ‘Black John’ by the troops in the Irish wars and the Crusades. With his slight stoop, head pushed forward and the long, lean face with the great hooked nose, he looked like some predatory bird of prey, a crow or raven.

  Most of the middle floor of the keep was taken up by the hall, a jostling, bustling vault where clerks and merchants ambled about with their parchments, servants carried food to tables against the walls and other
s stood around the great hearth, gossiping and scheming. The coroner ignored them and stumped across to a small door, his stick tapping on the flagstones. Another man-at-arms stood sentinel, though this was mainly from the sheriff’s need to show off his own importance rather than for security. Rougemont had not heard a weapon clashed in battle for over fifty years, since the siege in the time of Stephen and Matilda.

  Nodding to the guard, John pushed open the door and walked into the sheriff’s office. De Revelle’s private rooms were behind it, but this was his official chamber, where he conducted the business of being the king’s representative for the county of Devon – which job that he was currently hanging on to by the skin of his teeth, since his recent exposure by de Wolfe as having been involved in the abortive rebellion by Prince John against King Richard.

  Richard de Revelle raised his eyes from the parchments on his table and scowled when he saw who had entered. A slight, neat, rather dandified man, he was in no position to antagonize his brother-in-law who, together with the powerful loyalist faction in the county, was keeping a close eye on him. After a muttered greeting, which failed to include any enquiry as to the state of de Wolfe’s leg, the sheriff threw a curled piece of vellum across the trestle towards him. ‘What do you think of that, Crowner?’ he snapped, his small pointed beard jutting forwards pugnaciously.